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Written by 

Capt. Frederick Whittaker U. S. A. 



Copyright by James K. Hackett. 



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JAN r3 1917 



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THE COLUMN OF DEATH AT FONTENOY 



De Grammont and De Richelieu are jesting with i 

the king \ 

Beside the mill, with flowing cups, and laughing i 

echoes ring; ] 

from San Antoine and Fontenoy to Barry's wooded } 

hill, \ 

Where five assaults already foiled, we hold the I 

vantage stdl. ■ 



"P^ill bumpers," cried his majesty; 'Till up, my 

lords, be gay! 
The English bulldog's cowed at last, we've drawn 

his teeth today. 



The wrinkled face of Marshall Saxe alone wore any 

frown ; 
When all at once a distant gun, from Fontenoy 

boomed down. 



Then the Bois du Barry answered; it deepend to a 

roar; 
White curling clouds of cannon smoke o'ertopped 

the circling ridge; 
The listening troops dropped cards and dice, the 

long roll beat once more; 
Courtier and king hushed nervously and glanced 

back at the bridge. 



And Saxe he whispered.. "Lilly, ride quickly and 

find me out. 
What are those Eng:lish doing down by Fontenoy 
. redoubt." 

The guns had ceased, the king resumed his jest; 
When down the hill an aide-de-camp came dashing 

helter-skelter for the mill- 
"An English column Marshall-they're close behind 

the ridge, 
They've passed between the two redoubts, they're 

coming for the bridge." 

The panted news scarce out, when Heavens, what 

a volley! 
The king forgot his jest and paled, the courtiers 

ceased their folly. 

The stoutest heart turned sick and faint, for there. 
Oh, shameful sight. 

The Guards of France, until that day, unc6nquered 
in the fight. 

In headlong panic down the hill came streaming into 
view. 

And all the ridge was crowned with steel, with scar- 
let, white and blue. 

The Column. 

Lofty caps of stalwart guardsmen, white and golden, 
towering high, 

Snowy belts on breasts of scarlet, sweeping down in 
rank on rank; 

Nodding plumes and Highland tartans, darkly guard- 
ing either flank. 



Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 

No drum, no cheer, no iife, no shot; silent moves 
the British column. 



Swlk the Swiss Guards haste to meet them, eager 
Courtan rushing first; 

Then the Guarde Francaise of Paris, hurrying from 
the Valley's marge, 

"\'ive le Roi, " so cheerly rising, all the bands 
together burst. 

All the drums together beating, in that rattling, rol- 
ling charge. 



Still as death, like death remorseless, shaven faces, 

grim and solemn; 
Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 
No drum, no cheer, no fife, no shot, silent moves 

that British column, 

Awful front of Silence- 
Checking fury with its stolid thread, 
Lurking eyes of Highland giants, 'neath those nod- 
ding sable plumes, 
Awed that charge to slacken slowly, halting in un- 
wonted dread. 



Spellbound by the lurking lightning, shot athwart the 

thunder's gloom, 
French and English face each other, mid a silence 

deep and solemn; 
Nothing seen but glaring eyeballs, staring death from 

line and column. 



Then an English Captain's stern impatience, broke 

the waiting trance : 
Ringing out a haughty challenge, "Fire! Gentlemen 

of France! " 
"Yours the assault, yours first the fire," answered 

Haute Roche in a breath. 



And the compliments were over; silvering the cloud 

of death. 
Plashed one awful English volley, 'strowing corpses 

on the plain; 
Then a groan-pierced stillness; then long-drawn 

orders grating tone; 
Courtan, Guards and Swiss had vanished, lost in 

fugitive and slain. 
Trampling o'er the dead and dying, through the dun 

smoke all alone. 



No drum, no cheer, no fife, no shot; silent moves 

that lordly column. 

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 
Ah, the dapplegray Carribaneers; the earth in a 

quiver of horsehoofs, 
The air with the trumpeters blare; coming down in 

the charge on the column, 
Jn a thundering tempest of cheers. 



Crouched over the necks of the horses, \\ith blades 
all a-glitter in air, 

With the rock of the galloping squadron, and a ter- 
rible gathering shout, 

Plunging into the smoke of the volley, to meet the 
red flame leaping out. 



As the thunderbolt shatters the oak tree, the whirl- 
wind the forest lays low, 

So the flame of that volley far-reaching, the charge 
crashed with a withering shock, 

And the dapplegray steeds and their riders, lay heaped 
at the feet of the foe. 

As the breaker is dashed into fragments at the foot 

of the towering rock, 
Vaissault, Hainault, Aubeterre and the Kings Own, 

one after the other recoil 
From the front of that terrible column, with half 

their men on the soil. 



And Saxe has forgotten his dropsy, as he growls 
through his teeth to an aide, "Will nobody 
stop those red devils; then send in the Irish 
Brigade." 

The Irish Brigade stood a-chafing, like tigers all 

hungry for prey; 
For they knew that the aide-de-camp's gallop was 

bringing the order to spring. 
That the war harp of Erin must sound with the 

thunder and din of the fray, 
Calling victory back from afar, with the clang of 

each shivering string. 
And the yell of a century's fury rose high o'er the 

roll of the drum, 
As the mad brigade flew at the column-the day of 

its vengeance had come. 

The smoke-pall lowers; up to the shaking king 
comes Irish Lally: 



"What news, Count?" "News, sire, news? the 

day is ours. 
Order those guns up, sire; make our last rally." 
But what will Saxe say ? ' ' Give the order, sire ! ' ' 
He quakes, he hesitates, slowly nods his head; 

another moment, and the battery opens fire, 
Cleaving the column with a lane of dead. 

Now, Musketeers of France, black, red and gray, 

Aubeterre, Vaissault, Hainault and the Switz- 

ers who gave way; 
Rally your fug:itives to that last gun; rally, France, 

rally, charge them once more and victory 

is ours. 
The Irish wolf-hound's at the bulldog's throat, the 

smoke curls tihck where English banners float; 
The grapeshot's mowing swaths of slaughter wide. 
Rank piled on rank, the lordly column falls. 

Like men they fought, like men they grimly died; 
1 heir shot-pierced banners for their funeral pall; 
The Lion column yielded to that last advance, 
Led by the golden harp, that sung the victory for 
France. 

Capt. Frederick Whittaker U. S. A. 



